


Nobody Likes a Cockblock

by sonofabiscuit77



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ghost!Bobby, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's horny, Sam really wants to have sex with his brother. Unfortunately, Dean's feeling a bit squeamish about the whole thing now that they have an audience. Sam therefore talks to Bobby.</p><p>Warnings: spoilers up to SPN ep7-19</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Likes a Cockblock

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Nobody Likes a Cockblock/Секс-блокировка никому не по нутру](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088159) by [Smoking_breath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smoking_breath/pseuds/Smoking_breath)



“No,” says Dean. 

Sam closes his eyes and thuds his head back against the wall as he watches his brother stomp across the floor and snatch up the half-full bottle of whiskey. 

Dean’s been saying no for the past week. It’s a new experience for them. Dean doesn’t say no to him very often and he says it even less when Sam’s asking him if he wants to have sex. But that was before. Before they knew that their one last real friend and adoptive father figure has been hanging around them as a spectral presence watching their every move. 

Sam shudders. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Except... Except he’s really fucking horny, damn it. 

For the first time in years, he’s not crazy, not hopped up on demon-blood, he and Dean aren’t fighting (apart from the usual stuff) and the devil is no longer invading his headspace. Okay, so both of them are grieving, they’re on the shit-list of some seriously powerful mythical creatures, Dean’s got that debilitating alcohol dependence and Sam’s still all kinds of fucked-up after the aforementioned satanic invasion. But apart from all that, things are good. Sam’s brain is slowly getting back to normal, (whatever that means) and his sex drive is definitely getting back to normal. And damn it all, he just really, really wants to have sex. With his brother. 

“Dean, you’re making no damn sense!” he protests. 

Dean gives him a look, takes a swig straight from the bottle. The flask is locked in the trunk of the car, and it’s staying there until Sam gets his brother to see his point of view. 

“He’s been haunting us for the past three months. He’s already seen us doing it.” 

“Doing it?” Dean mouths, eyebrows all raised and mouth all sneering in that super-obnoxious way that Sam seriously hates. 

Sam half-closes his eyes and wonders just why it is he wants to have sex with someone who’s so goddamn annoying. On the other side of the room, Dean takes another long pull on the bottle, tipping his head back and exposing the long line of his throat. Sam watches his adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows, watches that little pink tongue lick across his lips to gather up any last stray drops, and remembers that yes – that’s why. 

Dean lowers the bottle and shrugs. “No one ever died of blue balls, Sam." 

“Actually that’s not technically true. Extensive periods of vasocongestion can have serious side effects when left untreated for a long time,” Sam answers, a little testily. 

Dean stares back at him, his eyebrows knit together in confusion, it makes him look a little dim-witted. “Vaso what?” 

“Vasocongestion,” Sam explains wearily. “It’s basically the medical term for blue balls. It’s when the penis and balls get all congested with fluid – it’s what happens when you get hard.” 

“Funnily enough, this conversation is having the exact opposite effect,” Dean says. “Can you please stop talking about this?” 

“Okay. But I’m being serious, Dean.” 

Dean sighs manfully and stomps across the room to throw himself down onto the couch. He looks frustrated and tense. He looks like he needs to get laid. More precisely, he looks like he needs Sam to lick him open until his asshole is gleaming with spit and lube, all ready for Sam’s cock to slide on in there and take him hard and fast. Failing that, he looks like he needs Sam to jerk him off and feed him his own come . Dean really likes the taste of his own come. 

Sam adjusts himself in his jeans and plops down onto the couch beside his brother. Dean regards him warily. He looks genuinely worried that Sam’s about to jump him, push him down into the cushions and—

Actually, that’s not a bad idea. 

Sam pounces. He wrestles Dean back down into the couch. Dean squirms and fights back. He tears at Sam’s hair and kicks his booted feet into the backs of Sam’s thighs. Sam yelps and flails for Dean’s arm, trying to pull his fingers away from his hair. 

Dean fights dirty. Sam had forgotten that too. 

The fight ends with Sam lying winded and breathless on his back on the floor. He stares up at the ceiling and pants for breath. Dean’s face hovers into view. His hair is tousled, his face is red with exertion and his lips are shiny. He looks annoyingly desirable. He also looks very smug. 

“Dude, you know you can never beat me,” he says. 

“Fuck off,” Sam mutters. 

Dean shakes his head; he smiles and holds out his hand for Sam to take. Sam stares at it mistrustfully. He considers yanking Dean back down onto the floor beside him. They could wrestle some more, roll around on this disgusting carpet together. His half-hard cock gives a hopeful twitch in his pants. 

He groans, closes his eyes and thuds his head back onto the carpet. 

 

** 

Sam takes the flask with him when he goes out to get coffee the next morning. He parks the car next to the coffee place and places the flask on the passenger seat.

“Bobby? Are you here?” he says. 

His breath turns into a white cloud and a river of gooseflesh runs up his arms. The temperature in the car falls about twenty degrees and Bobby flashes into view beside him. There’s a faint ozoney, lightning smell in the car, it’s a smell that has his fingers twitching to reach for his weapon. It makes the hairs on his arms stand up and his nape prickle. He hates that this smell now signals Bobby's presence. 

He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel and slowly turns to look at Bobby. He didn’t notice it the first time, but Bobby’s wearing the clothes he died in, the ones he was wearing when they conducted that useless stake-out on Dick Roman. 

“Sam, it’s good to see you,” Bobby says. 

It’s weird, Sam can actually sort of see through him. He wonders for a moment just how Bobby is actually sitting there. Shouldn’t he fall through – into - the seat? He can walk through walls; Sam’s seen him do it. And okay so he’s got the Swayze manipulating objects thing working okay now – apparently it’s something to do with “getting his zen on” – but still, that doesn’t explain the sitting. Then again, nothing about this entire damn situation makes sense. 

“Hi, Bobby,” he greets him. “I, uh, I need to talk to you about Dean.” 

“Of course you do,” Bobby says with a sigh.

Sam huffs out a breath, an almost smile. This part at least is familiar. “He’s, uh, he’s taking it badly. You being here.” 

Bobby nods. “I know. But this wasn’t just about him, Sam. This was my decision. I want to finish those leviathan bastards. I really want to finish them. I ain’t done yet.” 

“I know, I get that,” Sam says. And he does. He understands about revenge, about getting a job done, about seeing things through the bitter end. Except... Bobby could be in heaven right now. He could be at peace. But he’s not, he’s right here, tied to them. And it’s – it’s not what any of them would’ve ever chosen. Or at least, that’s what he always thought. 

“When this is done. After this, then, well, I guess then it’ll be time for me to move onto the next big ball game,” Bobby says. 

Sam nods his head. The thing is – after that, after the leviathans, there’ll be something else. There’s always something else. The angels are still up there heaven, still boss-less. And God help everybody when do get a new sheriff in town. And then there are the demons. Crowley’s still very much alive and kicking. Meg too. And Cas of course, all dosed up with Sam’s crazy, as if they don’t have enough ticking time bombs. 

“So, what’s the problem with Dean this time?” Bobby says. 

Sam blinks. The thing is he has no idea how to say this: The problem is you, Bobby, your presence here, tied to us, tied to Dean. It's a huge fucking cock-block preventing me from fucking my brother which is something we both really need right now. 

Bobby’s not dumb though, and Bobby knows them, knows him. He’s eyeing Sam like he knows exactly what he’s trying to say. He blows out a breath, sighs, and it sounds soBobbyish that Sam’s chest hurts. 

“You want me out the picture so you and Dean can keep screwing each other,” Bobby says. It’s not a question and his tone is as dry as dust. 

Sam feels the heat flood into his face and neck in a hot shameful rush. He’s been trying to work out how many times they’ve done it since Bobby’s death. It’s not that many, maybe, five, six times in total – tame for them. Admittedly, they’ve had some pretty fucking huge distractions: Lucifer, leviathans, grief. Still, though. They’re healthy(ish) young men and they’re – well – sometimes there’s not all that much to do in those cheap motel rooms, half of them don’t even have cable, so they have to make their own fun. 

But more importantly, there’s the whole deal where Sam’s pretty sure that if he and Dean hadn’t started fucking each other all those years ago, they would’ve ended up killing each other instead at some point in their ridiculously entwined, co-dependent lives. Really, sex is necessary for them. It’s a restorative. A really fun and hot restorative. 

He clears his throat. He can feel Bobby looking at him; that guarded, disappointed look of his, and this part – this part where he feels like a guilty teenager who’s just been caught smoking behind the bleachers – hasn’t changed at all. 

“Um, yeah, something like that. Just for a few hours at the most. Not gone for good. But with you here now, Dean won’t. He won’t—“ 

“Put out?” 

Christ. Sam’s face is burning brighter than the midday sun. He could power up a goddamn generator with the heat from his face. 

“Uh, yeah. He’s embarrassed. Knowing that you must’ve. You know.” 

“And what about you? Don’t you feel embarrassed?” Bobby interrupts. 

“God yeah, I do, of course I do. But, um, the way I see it. Well, we’ve been. It’s been going on a long time. And you—“ he slants Bobby a sideways glance-- “I figure you knew before, right?” 

“That you and your brother’s feelings for each other were a little more than brotherly. Yeah, I knew. Gotta be blind not to,” Bobby says flatly. 

“Right, right.” Sam nods his head, licks his lips again. 

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t dry heave to heaven and back the first time I saw you boys expressing those unbrotherly feelings,” Bobby adds. 

“Oh God, oh God,” Sam groans. He bows his head, tightens his grip on the wheel. His fingers are cramping by now but for some reason he can’t make himself let go. 

Oh God, that first time. The first time after they got back from the hospital, after Bobby was pronounced dead. They’d both been crying, they were sick with it, crying until their eyes ached and their throats were dry, and Lucifer had been there for so much of it, mocking him. And then they’d gotten back to the motel room, and Dean had thrown Sam against the wall, torn down Sam’s zipper with his teeth and sucked at his dick like it was the answer to life itself. He’d pulled off before Sam had climaxed and Sam had come all over his brother’s face. He'd dropped to knees to lick it off, thrusting his tongue into his brother’s mouth and sharing the taste while he jacked Dean’s cock. Every slurp and lick of their tongues, every squeeze and caress of his fingers meaning _never leave me, never go, never let me go…_

Oh God. 

“I’m sorry,” he says weakly. 

Bobby snorts. 

“It’s just that—“ 

“What, Sam?”

How can he explain it? It’s not like they both don’t already know what they do together behind closed doors is wrong. They know that. It’s why they’ve kept it secret for so long from everybody they know. But it’s _their_ thing. It belongs to them. Dean belongs to him and he belongs to Dean and it’s always been like that. From those early fumbling teenage years when Dean showed him how to jerk off; to the first time he took his brother raw and whole and nothing in between when he was seventeen years old; to all the thousands of other times they’ve touched each other, fucked each other, sucked each other off, and tried out every dirty porn-star move they’ve ever seen on each other. 

“We have just this one thing,” he says finally. “Everything else, our lives, they suck. They fucking suck. You know that. Everyone we love is dead.” He gives Bobby a look, and is both overwhelmingly sad and perversely satisfied to see Bobby look guilty. “The world sucks. All we have is each other and – this. And I know it’s wrong and I know we’re sick and fucked-up. But hey, what’s new there? This – this is the one true way I have to drum it into his stupid, stubborn head what he means to me. Winchesters ain’t good with words, Bobby. But actions.” He swallows, he can feel the tears threatening behind his eyes. “Actions are what matters.” 

Bobby’s silent for a long time, then he pushes out a breath, says, “So, what do you want me to do, Sam?” 

 

**

 

“So, Bobby put in a cameo appearance this morning while I was in the shower,” Dean says conversationally. “Again.” 

Sam lowers the razor and looks at his brother’s reflection in the mirror. Dean’s leaning against the bathroom doorjamb, arms folded, expression unreadable. Sam turns around, looks at him. 

“You were in the shower?” he repeats. He watches Dean come into the room and take a seat on the lid of the closed toilet. 

“Yup, he handed me a freaking towel,” Dean adds, raising an eyebrow. 

“ _Dude_ ,” Sam says feelingly. 

“Yeah. Well, we had ourselves a little talk.” 

Sam feels his heart skip a beat. He lowers the razor, rinses it under the tap. “And?” he says carefully. 

“He said he was cool with us – you know – that he was okay with it. As long as he wasn’t in the room at the time of course.” 

Sam places the razor on the side of the sink. He picks up the towel, wipes the foam off his face. His mind is racing, his pulse skip-skipping. “Really?” he says finally, lowering the towel. 

“Yes, really,” Dean says dryly. “Which makes me wonder if the two of you have been talking about me behind my back.” He raises an eyebrow. “Sam? Anything you want to share with the group?” 

Sam sighs and drops the towel on top of the sink. “We did talk. And he, like he said to you, he’s okay with it, Dean.” He bites his lip on the lie, hopes that Dean doesn’t see through it. “Well, maybe not precisely okay,” he qualifies, “but – he gets it.” 

“He gets it,” Dean echoes. 

“Yeah.” Sam takes a step towards his brother. Dean tilts his head back to look up at him and Sam takes it as an invitation to move closer. He drops his hands to Dean’s shoulders, caresses the side of Dean’s neck with his forefinger. Dean shudders under the touch, his eyelashes flutter. It really has been way too fucking long. Sam watches him swallow, sees the bob of his adam’s apple. A spike of lust shoots through him and he drags one hand up and into Dean’s hair, he cradles the back of Dean’s head. 

“Sammy,” Dean murmurs. He puts his hands on Sam’s hips, snags his thumbs in Sam’s belt loops. He pulls Sam closer, presses his face against Sam’s thigh, noses at his crotch. 

Sam’s getting hard, his dick filling and thickening, his balls tightening. Vasocongestion, he thinks, biting his lip on the stupid laugh that threatens. He caresses the back of Dean’s head, snags his fingers on Dean’s short hair, cards through it gently. Dean tips his head back, blinks up at him. His eyes are hazy, pupils dilating. Dean’s getting hard too; Sam can see it, a thick line visible through the thin, worn denim. 

“It’s not that I don’t want you,” Dean says quietly. “I do. I really do.” 

“I know,” says Sam. 

“It’s just,” Dean breaks off, licks his lips. Sam traces the path of Dean’s tongue, his dick throbs. God, he wants him, it’s fucking ridiculous how much he wants him. 

“The flask is in the car,” Sam says. 

Dean’s mouth twitches. He pushes out a half-laugh, half-groan. 

“And he knows. He knew – he already knew. Even before.” 

“Really?” Dean looks shocked. 

“Yes, really, Dean.” Sam smiles fondly. He drags his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone. “He knows us, man. He’s known us for years. Of course he knew.” 

“Shit,” Dean says. He licks his lips again, and seriously, that is it. 

Sam sinks to the floor, knees thumping on the linoleum. He grasps Dean’s head in his hands and brings their mouths together. 

Dean doesn’t resist. 

 

**

 

The second time they make it to the bed. 

Afterwards, Dean lies in the V of Sam’s thighs, his head lolls back against Sam’s shoulder. Sam noses at the side of his face, nuzzles at his stubbly jaw with his own soft, shaven cheek. 

“What? Why are you smiling?” he whispers. 

“I don’t know, just. Some of the stuff he must’ve seen. Fuck. You remember that time after the Amazon chick? After you shot that girl.” 

“Your daughter,” Sam says. “And yes, I remember. I was so pissed with you. I tied you to the bed and rimmed your ass for forty-five minutes. You were begging and cursing at me like a 10 dollar whore by the end of it. Some sweet revenge, Dean.”

“It was fucking hot,” Dean says. “But now when I think about it, I can’t help thinking that—“ 

“Don’t,” Sam interrupts with a groan. “God, please, don’t. I don’t think I’ll ever get hard again if I think about that.” 

Dean chuckles. He pushes back against Sam’s body, rubs his ass against Sam’s groin. He snatches for Sam’s hand, drags it around his own body for Sam to cup his dick. Sam sighs and rolls Dean’s balls between his fingers, loving the heavy weight, loving the feel of his brother’s dick filling and thickening in his hand. His own cock is getting hard, trapped between their two bodies. 

“Mmm, you were sayin’, Sammy?” Dean whispers, his tone is a little gloating. 

“Shut up,” Sam murmurs and takes his brother’s mouth in a kiss. 

 

**

 

It’s another five hours before Sam goes out to the car to retrieve the flask from the glove compartment.

 

END.


End file.
